


Young Miss Hart

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: The room smelled of spilled alcohol, sawdust, sweat, and blood; drunken cheers filled his ears; and as he wound through the disorganized mob circling the center of the room he was shoved left and right.  He tensed, hands firmly in his pockets—this late in the night, plenty of the patrons would forget they were there to watch the fights and instead try to pick one.It was no place for a man like him.Then again, it was not a place for a woman like her, yet there she was.
Relationships: Victorian bareknuckle fighter/Victorian gentleman who frequents her fights
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Canon Ball 2020





	Young Miss Hart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skatzaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/gifts).



“Doctor Archer, I’m so glad you agreed to see us on such short notice, and on a Sunday.” Mrs. Hart said, getting up from her chair to greet the young physician as he walked through the door. He grimaced at the darkness of the room in which he was supposed to perform the examination—he would’ve preferred to conduct this at his office, but when the matriarch of the Hart family demanded a house call, well. “Oh dear, did we get you up at this early hour?”

It was not quite early enough to be ‘early’, although the Harts’ servant had awoken him. “Its fine Ma’am.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You must’ve been up all last night seeing patients.” Something mildly disapproving was in her tone, as if she didn’t quite believe that statement. He was young, and unmarried, and a young, unmarried man on a Saturday evening could be diligently working to advance himself and the cause of medicine, or not.

* * *

_The room smelled of spilled alcohol, sawdust, sweat, and blood; drunken cheers filled his ears; and as he wound through the disorganized mob circling the center of the room he was shoved left and right. He tensed, hands firmly in his pockets—this late in the night, plenty of the patrons would forget they were there to watch the fights and instead try to pick one._

_And he was not suited for violence._

_He kept his back stiff, face neutral. Once or twice he made eye contact with some other patron he knew, another spectator from the strata of society that was out of place in this dive. They’d always break eye contact before he did._

_This was no place for men like him or them._

_Nor was it a place for a woman like her, yet here she was._

* * *

Dr. Archer answered Mrs. Hart’s question as to his Saturday night go in the affirmative. And it was the truth. After last night’s festivities, medical expertise had been needed and given. However, he figured he would spare Mrs. Hart the details of his Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning. And get down to business. Rubbing bloodshot eyes and then straightening his posture, Dr. Archer said “Your man was very light on details when he came to fetch me this morning. What seems to ail you, Mrs. Hart?”

“Oh, not me…” Mrs. Hart said, before explaining the very specific cardiac symptoms she had upon laying her eyes on her youngest daughter. Dr. Archer kept his face neutral. Mrs. Hart was impenetrable—was this genuine fear for her daughter, or a ruse? She was virtually steel gilded over, but fretting over her children was only natural.

“What is wrong with Young Miss Hart?” the physician asked, eyes on form sitting in the corner—most likely exiled there by her fretting mother until the doctor came in. ‘Young Miss Hart’ was the proper address for her; despite Dr. Archer having known Young Miss Hart from childhood. Back when the elder Dr. Archer attended to the Hart family, and he was just a boy, and she a girl.

* * *

_“Emily!” Mrs. Hart said, hands on hips. A beleaguered Maid stood indecisive next to her—unsure of whether to aid her employer or slink away and avoid being chewed out for dereliction of duty. Her voice was loud, authoritative. “Get down here, right now!”_

_He shifted uncomfortably on the branch, considering options to descend. Mrs. Hart was imposing. Everyone was a little afraid of her—even father. Everyone by Em. She brushed red hair over her ear and grinned like a cherub._

_“And you, Tom!”_

_Oh no, Mrs. Hart had noticed him. This was bad._

_“You should know better than leading my daughter—”_

_“It was my idea!” Emily said, indignant that her mother thought that she was following a boy’s lead, instead of the other way around._

_And Mrs. Hart was indignant at being interrupted. By a child. By her child._

_And suddenly, Thomas Archer felt like he was caught in a maelstrom._

* * *

“Emily… it’s just so terrible.” Mrs. Hart continued. “She was… attacked, last night.”

“Attacked? Have you called the police?” Dr. Archer asked, turning towards the elder Hart woman. He saw Young Miss Hart’s shoulders slump out the corner of his eye. Before Mrs. Hart could say a word, the physician walked over to the curtained window and flung them open, letting the sun illuminate the room. “And I’m sorry, Ma’am, but if I am to examine our patient I must see her. Come, into the light.”

Young Miss Hart did as directly, shifting from the chair in the corner to a sofa at the window. She was unquestionably a pretty girl, save the split lip and black eye; making a mockery of the serene, prim and proper expression that she wore on her face. She smiled, with teeth yellowed by blood.

Mrs. Hart made an excuse and left. That surprised Dr. Archer—she was a tough woman. Seeing her daughter, _attacked_ , must’ve legitimately rattled her. As the door shut behind the woman, he looked at Young Miss Hart, who tilted her chin up, eyes locked on the door. He walked over, crouching down to peer through the keyhole at a hallway quickly being vacated by Mrs. Hart.

The coast was clear.

Dr. Archer turned and gave a conspiratorial nod, and Young Miss Hart relaxed. He approached, as she leaned against the window sill, her serene smile turning outright devilish. Leaning in close, the physician examined the bruised woman, apologizing when he had to force her eyelid open to verify that the eye underneath was undamaged.

“Doesn’t look too severe… Emi.” Without Mrs. Hart fretting over her, Dr. Hart felt no obligation to refer to Young Miss Hart as Young Miss Hart. 

In truth, he had been worried a bit after last night. The fights were always so much more fierce when they were with someone else from Emi’s social circles. He wondered about that—it would make an interesting case study for an alienist. But at the moment, it was a relief verifying that Emi had a mostly clean bill of health.

“You should really wrap your fists next time.” Dr. Archer added, leaning in close and studying the patterns of bruises and abrasions covering the young woman’s knuckles. He gently ran the pads of the fingers of his free hand across the back of hers, staying well aware from the damage. “You may end up with scars.”

“And would that be so terrible?” She asked., running her hands over her skirt, straightening it out. Her right hand hand lingering on the area of her mid-thigh where she got a scare so long ago, when the branch broken and they tumbled out of the tree. While her mother grabbed him by the ear, she laughed and was trying to climb to a higher branch. He only found out she had a scar there years later, when he first saw it. She knew he didn't mind her scars.

“Not at all, simply offering some medical advice.” Dr. Archer, holding her hand up and kissing it. She squeezed his hand and leaned in close to him, resting her head against his shoulder. Somewhere, beneath the floral scents she was wearing, he could still smell sawdust, beer, and blood. “Are you sure you feel alright? You’ll be fine given time, but I wager it must hurt something fierce.”

She laughed a little at that. “You? Wager? You don’t seem like the betting type to me, Thomas.”

Doctor Archer opened his mouth to say she didn’t seem like the type to get her face and hands bloody in that pit… but honestly it made a sort of sense. “I may make a few wagers. Always bet on you, my dear.”

“And now my mother will most assuredly pay you for your attentions today.” 

“It is quite a business opportunity.” He confirmed.

That earned a small smile from her.

* * *

_The crowd roar, smell of beer and sawdust, shoving, all faded away as she walked in. She was always the only one he couldn’t keep eye contact with. There was a complicated bundle of emotions when she came to fight._

_He appreciated the fights, and he was worried for a friend. A part of him he’d never acknowledge might’ve harbored impure thoughts about these brawls._

_When she stepped into the irregular circle, fists raised, he felt a rush of emotions that he found difficult to process. The same sort of stunned giddiness always overcame him, like that time she kissed him, way back in the branches of that tree in her yard._

_He had no idea she was a fighter until that one night, when the redhead with her back to him circled around, trading fists with a massive blonde. And he caught sight of her. She didn’t notice him until she sent the blond sprawling with a left to the jaw. Her eyes caught his._

_And he blinked._

_And it was like that every time. He could never look away, unless she looked at him._

_And this current fight, two well-to-do ladies of society, no reason to fight like this except they liked to get in barbs with their fists rather than rumor and scandal, was impossible to look away from._

* * *

They sat together in silence, the pretext of a medical examination fading, as they sat, his hand brushing through her hair. She leaned in, sighing contentedly. He had to ruin the moment. “I was worried about you last night… the fight was…”

“…Yeah.” She said, sitting upright again, hissing slightly as she did. She hurt. Once again, he regretted that she did not stick around long enough for him to examine him last night, even if she were fine. She turned and looked at him, looked him straight in the eye and asked “How is Irene?”

“Miss Beaumont? She’s dazed and probably feeling terrible, but I’m sure she’ll be fine…” He trailed off. He supposed some other member of the medical fraternity was also being summoned to the Beaumont residence, hearing a tale of how their daughter had been attacked.

“That’s good.” She nodded slightly, voice devoid of emotions, much less the _rage_ she displayed last night. She left while he and another doctor attended to her opponent—he only looked up long enough to see her take her leave.

They were silent for a long, long time, before she relaxed again. Apparently unable to think of anything smart to say, he added. “I do wonder what will happen if your Mother and Beaumont’s father meet up anytime soon.”

“She’d probably do worse to him than I did to Irene.” Emi said, looking up with a smile. Gesturing to her eye. “And that’s without knowing that she did this. Utterly hates that man.”

“And you and Irene?”

“Friendly rivalry.” It definitely didn’t look that way last night. Although it was possible--after Emi and her friend Josefina’s encounter a few months back required six men to separate them, the very next day they were laughing and chatting like they hadn’t attempted to pulverize them when he surreptitiously met them. Emily let her voice positively _drip_ with annoyance when she sighed and added “Might have to stay in for the next few months to be _safe_ and sound from the muggers and cutthroats that cover this city.”

A lot of young society ladies were patronizing Dr. Archer, and a few other men of medicine who never returned his gaze in the arena. There were veiled, off-the-cuff, discussions among the medical fraternity that the epidemic of accidents and assaults against the women of London would arouse the suspicion of the police sooner or later. Nobody had an answer for what would happen that day. Archer leaned back, and grinned. “It may be for the best. After all if you girls didn’t seem to just run into the wrong crowd, you _delicate flowers…_ ”

* * *

_The crowd chanted as Emi and Irene wound the fight down. Cautious attempts to slip a jab through the others defenses gave way to wilder, bolder strikes, attempts to throw the other down. At once point, Irene managed to pin down Emi, landing a blow that honestly Archer thought would’ve meant the end of the fight._

_Emi managed to knock her foe off and recover her feet._

_By now, they were moving sluggishly, not unlike some of the less graceful drunks spectating. Neither put up much of a guard anymore either, simply whaling on the other, no tactics or finesse. He was worried, this was usually unlike either of them._

_Reeling half a step back, holding a hand over her mouth, Emi screamed something inarticulate and then stamped forward, throwing her entire body behind her right hand. Irene was too punch-drunk to do anything resembling evasion or defense, and pitched backward._

_The crowd was silent, before yelling. Beer was spilled, wagered money changed hands._

_Emi, teetering on her feet, panted heavily, wiping her mouth with a bloodied hand. She shot him a glance, and before he broke eye contact, gave him a wide, red grin._

* * *

“Delicate flowers?” She glared daggers at him, causing him to shut up. Then she giggled, a small, girlish little noise absolutely unlike the screams and profanities she made last night. No offense taken. Her grin faded and she added “You have no idea how annoying it would be for me. You can just see some other fight for your amusement; while I would have to sit here, being a 'proper young lady'.”

“Trust me, if your fights are put on hold, I’d be sitting in my office, reading a medical journal. Being a proper doctor.” Dr. Archer said, shutting the curtains behind them and draping an arm over her shoulder. "You do need to rest up after last night, though. Doctor's orders."

She nodded slowly. He’d treated several others among the loose collection of women in that underground fighting circle—his practice catered to all sorts, and so rich or poor, fair or rough, he’d seen plenty of patients the day after he’d seen plenty of fighters. “I’ve heard that a 'dashing young gentleman' seems to be a fan of mine. Any idea who that would be? Nights I’m not there, they say you sometimes do not show."

“Do they?” Dr. Archer asked holding his hand, palm upward. She took it in hers.

“When I ask them.” Another small smile. “They think I may have a thing for you. As if I would be interested in a random fan of mine. Even if they had fallen for me."

"I did fall for you. Out a tree, onto you rmother, if I recall correctly." That earned a rather unladylike laugh, which made him grin pretty wide. She rested her head on his shoulder, put a hand on his thigh. His heart was racing a little—in broad daylight, with her mother in the house, he was not going to take this as far as they both wanted to. She leaned in closer, her breath on the side of his neck until he turned to look her in the eye. 

She grinned, good eye gleaming mischieviously.

He didn’t look away.


End file.
